dimanche 22 février 2009

gateaux de mariage à belleville

by Annie Griolet 

Cliquez pour enlargir! xoxoox

to annie-claire for my birthday (translation)

and to all my sister souls

a rose-orange daisy a mix-up an infinity a symphony in c# minor
a busy life the prey of absence a seance another covenant for you and me
a path towards spring gainsbourg et simone play for our hearts blue butterflies both of us
joy without end a tenderness that offends that nourishes that embraces that inflames our spirits
then the march of women come their legs their arms hand in hand they never finish
we are friends sweetness we are lovers (fem) of lovers (fem) cream and sugar
beauty voluptuousness whips and wings somber eyes deepest night blue of sky a veil of skin
to touch to flirt to triumph on the hill behind the fields i find my lover awaiting me
and me without age without plot without scars rebirths my body and gives all glory to thee

Flowers from last year's garden by Barbary Chaapel

à annie-claire pour mon anniversaire

et à toutes mes âmes-sœrs

une marguérite rose-orange un mélange un infini une symphonie en do dièse mineur
une vie toute prise la proie de l'absence une voie une autre loi pour
toi et moi

un chemin vers le printemps gainsbourg et simone tous les jours les papillons bleus nous deux
la joie sans cesse la tendresse qui blesse qui nourit qui embrasse qui enflamme nos âmes
puis la marche des femmes viennent ses jambes ses bras et la main dans la main elles ne finissent pas
nous sommes amies douceur nous sommes amantes des amantes crème et sucre
beauté volupté fouets et ailes yeux sombres brun foncé bleu clair et une voile de chair
toucher flirter triompher sur la colline derrière les champs je trouve mon amante qui m'attend
et moi sans âge sans complot sans plaies renait mon corps et te donne la gloire

fleur: shasta daisy by Andrea Grenadier

samedi 14 février 2009

Repudiation Song

Do you think this body
has anything to do with me at all,
this heart that throbs
its seventy beats per minute,
this blood thick and coarse, these uneven rhythms like ocean,
this veined arm full of scars raised over my head for effluence,
these rubber ribbons wrapped
'round it and pumped up large with
green vinyl and frail wires, then gauged and recorded like
every nickel-and-dime thought
in the daily diary I try to keep?

This heart is not an organ at all,
no, not a thing beating for a season
but an idea that sings with every
breaking dawn and blazing sunset
I've seen, as I sit on the rocks west of
all my travelled highways and
brokered mountains, somewhere at the edge of a world where
time itself stands still,
a second bleeding into hours,
colors bent wider with light,
and the mind quiet as twilight
in blind anticipation that
hearts will again pump blood and
tides will be drawn in and out,
as we give ourselves over to
our great mother
and trust her to fulfill her gravitational pull.

Nothing but nothing is what it
seems, for each thing stands as
representatative idea. So what do i have to do with this body,
this hot blood, this muscular heart,
the elastin of my arms,
when i am in love with the silver moon and her symbolic works?
And I tell you,
nothing, except this heart so full it hurts.
And what do i have to
do with pain at all but love?
And what do i have to do with
death or birth when i'm a bird
an endless ocean to cross and a song for every season?

lundi 2 février 2009

i need a poem

i need something

anything perhaps

i'm bored and flat
i'm getting fat and flabby

waiting around for

another idea to
take me
into a
stratosphere of sound
i'm too silently wound
tight as a drum and dull

my arms hurt like hell as
i work the keyboard
my eyes catch a
glimpse of film
sex with sound, wow!

and i think with a laugh
perhaps what i need is
a good fuck like that!
but then sigh out loud

'cause that's no cure at all
for what pains me

it's too temporary
corporeal and
it's violent
as hell

no, i need a poem

that fits me better than
any sexy trick
in the book
it assuages
my sense
of worthlessness

it gets me out into

public life and sends

waves of being into this
otherwise tepid nothingness

needs needs needs hound me

day and night and keep
fighting, seeking
, hoping for
something fresh
, something true
to wake me up
out of
this lousy nightmare

but a good poem
a good cigar
takes off the edge
sucks out the foam from
my diminishing brain

and lets it breathe again

a good poem

i need a good poem
could be yours but
ought to be mine
i can't live my life
without writing
i don't want to live
i can't think to put words to it
to that which has no words
i love my children
my friends
i love my man for what he is
but a good poem
is like
being able to
after suffocating

like food after a rescue
from seven days in
the desert
no umbrella no water
a good poem
come after prayer

it comes on the backs
of all the bad ones that

i've writ in despair
it comes when you say
enough of this crap
this laziness and pain!

i'm gonna write one today

and to hell with this brain!

ok i can't think,
i admit it!

can barely feel to think

ok i'm caught like
a stupid seal
in a tuna net and
no one
to rescue it
so what?

i'll act as if i am able
try a line or two

break out of myself

and force a tune
even if it's dissonant
hell and obtuse

a good poem

this is not a good poem

but it's a poem
on which i'll build
one of the weak ones that
lead to success

that bring me to myself
in this dark place
there will never be another life
in which to do it
never another moment

like this one, seize it!
and what comes of it will be
a testament
to my will:
and for that
a nod
toward heaven
and a nod toward hell
just for the thrill

just to know i'm alive
that i write!
just to know
something anything!
i will try my hand
i will pry open my
corroded, aging brain
and a poem will be had
good or bad

pas de grave!

it's how i know what i know
i write it and it simply is
my body
broken for thee
take of it and eat

and remember me

Moineau, Writing. Watercolor by Ron Walker.